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Featured Poet



George Moore

_________________________


( Lyons, Colorado )



The Innocence of Science

The room has no dimensions
other than the space that has just left
 
in a fist made by time
as we now know it.
 
Under the covers once
things were possible even probable
but always before the distinction.
 
She says think back hard to the time
when a rock was just a rock.
 
Chaos is not a science
it is an appropriated fear of not being able to say something.
 
There was no I
in that room, only the board
only the incredibly long summer afternoons.
 
The world of that summer was divided into numbers
which still look like the arbitrary way
others have of assuming a truth
is the truth.
 
Held back they said you will be held back
like it were a time warp
like it were human and therefore responsible
 
and therefore kind somehow
not theirs.
 
But science is another way of saying nothing
more or less.  It is invisible.
 
I hope to survive it into the next millennium.




Survivor Tactics

         Ö a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
                         A. E. Houseman


With the millennia of traditions that create this space you inhabit, as a bear inhabits a cave, or a fish a stream, but with your heightened sense of awareness, that crutch some call consciousness, these environs on the way to heaven are torturously incomplete. Itís not that you want answers, or the answer, as if there were a gold ring on this wheel you are forced to ride, but you want more than a transfer ticket. You want a sense of validation, reason, a sinecure, but most of all, a space that does not shrink. You want love, perhaps, and/or a few bright children, those fleshy things one leaves behind to tell others which way they have gone. For now that you have found yourself at last alone on the beach at Acapulco, with an umbrella drink in your hand and a sunset that should only be shared, and the warm air curling the hairs on your chest, you donít feel you deserve such monotony, that somehow youíve been detoured, misdirected perhaps, and that all youíve worked for is meant to be enjoyed, isnít it? You feel like the trajectory of a rocket waiting to fall back down to earth, in the deadly grasp of human gravity, quotidian and diurnal, in fear of the final sum-up and unable even to make the proper face. But think about the doors you have walked by late at night, and the places you could have gone, never to return. Think hard of the one place you could never imagine yourself. Curled in an armchair at home reading an incredible book that you realize only at the last page that you have written, and it ends in a smudged watermark with illegible signature because it has sat in the basement too long gathering mold and disguising the true nature of your choices. And after a short nap, you wake up the survivor, the magician, the god, for you have nothing anymore to go after, and you open the book again, somehow complete.





On the Death of LuŪs Miguel Nava

Why would a poet be assassinated in this day?
What answer could have changed my wonder at seeing his death sentence?
But of course, the poet is gay.
 
What death would mean more than a war and an annihilation?
What we mean when we say death is war itself.  
And what word is worth the death of a man or woman?
 
What happens over time when we remember cruelty, blindness, 
the bigotry of those whose lives are governed by what they alone see 
as righteous beliefs?
 
Why do his reasons, the poetís words, come up like a struggling blossom
at the exact moment when I learn of his life
and that moment is the answer to his death?




The Chapel of Bones

Capela dos Ossos  does not save it
the monksí kind 
that incredible vision of this world as death
personified in the fleshy remains and then
this

bone haven
house of the visible dead
all so that we they us and them
can remember the origin
of sin, fleshy particles 
of stardust

And we come today not to meditate
on our frail mortality
on the final ends
those dark halls where we meet our maker
as if He/She/It were an artisan
drunk of an afternoon
in Portugal in spring

but rather to see these bones
this wall of fibula and tibia and femur
a hall of human skulls like lampposts
or the rounded knobs of ornaments

but rather to sense these lives
somewhere hidden and unburied
their bones a chapel
no childrenís bones were used
the guide says, no unhealthy misuse of the dead

but rather who here has gone on
to look back and want 
something else or other
than the display of what meant nothing anyway
those old bones of my body 
that damn old cracked knee cap
what do they mean
today

that they did not mean yesterday
when they were my infrastructure
my only secret decoration
my hidden heart cage and brain burrow
those skulls with eyes like sad 
questions of why this now

floodlights and tourist flashbulbs 
and the one Euro charge
(extra for photos)
when it is not death we seek but a sense of these
borderline insane monks on a rage
to offer themselves up to the life
hereafter, or whatever

as we would without even thinking
there was anything more than the bio-cage
to keep this chapel in this other world

wondering whether
this bone house 
this bone fort
would save one of those old boys from extinction




Motorcycling with Kafka

On the freeway I collect more bugs than Kafka ever saw,
but as with him, everyone is aiming at me. 
Iím the only one on a machine that doesnít have windows.

I would rather have his room with doors.  The most dangerous 
thing now would be a metamorphosis.  Itís been hours 
since the last caffeine, and still a lifetime to go.

I wouldnít be out here of course if you hadnít called.
Thereís no Zen in wind this strong, but there are moments 
of freedom, which get more frequent the more I forget. 

I never noticed the chrome girls on the mudflaps of eighteen wheelers
before.  They are the women I confuse you with now.
So I nearly miss your exit, my exit, and then canít find your house.


I - Desperate to Tell
II - Roads Create Probability
III - Like Violets on the Wind

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